


The Rogue and the Princess

by rawrkinjd



Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Shakespeare Quotations, Soft Lambert (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Jaskier asks Lambert for a little roleplay, and the smitten wolf happily obliges.Dedicated to the talented round_robin, who was re-reading Chapter 16 of "Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart" and wondered.(Probably happened around Walking with Wolves, Ch. 1-3)
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Lambert/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717648
Comments: 106
Kudos: 573





	The Rogue and the Princess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [round_robin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/gifts).



Eskel had asked to eat lunch on Kaer Morhen’s outer walls, so Geralt carried his plate of freshly baked bread onto the scaffold behind the battlements. Vesemir made a fresh loaf every morning and it was Geralt’s favourite thing to eat while at home; he could deal with the expanded waistline in the spring. He found Eskel perched over a set of empty crates facing inwards. Odd. His paramour liked the views over Morhen Valley, even from this height, but now sat with his back to them in favour of something else. Geralt sat down and leaned his head briefly to Eskel’s shoulder in a silent, affectionate greeting. It was returned with a swift kiss pressed into his hair, and then Eskel returned to _watching._

The source of his fascination was fairly obvious: Lambert. It wasn’t unusual for Eskel to watch Lambert - affectionately, hungrily, with exasperation - but it wasn’t _usually_ a lunch-time activity. Evenings. Some mornings. Even at night if Eskel woke up feeling particularly sentimental and then he just watched them all sleep peacefully for a bit, because it made him feel content. Lambert was currently pacing around in one spot making big gestures with his arms, as if _talking_ to someone, but Geralt could see neither Vesemir nor Jaskier. Perhaps the goat then? Lil’ Bleater could be fairly vocal, but even he didn’t seem interested in Lambert’s ramblings.

“Is he… reciting poetry?” Geralt squinted.

“Yes.” Eskel replied, simply. He jammed a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, amber eyes bright and amused.

“Why?”

“Just watch. We’re going to have material for the next thirty years.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sat back and ate silently for around five minutes, and then Jaskier appeared in the window above Lambert’s head. “Is that - is that one of Yen’s dresses?”

“Mmhm.” Eskel purred, _delighted._

***

Lambert paced. Because he had so much energy coiled in his chest that he was certain if he stood still it would split him open. The words. He knew the words. He’d forgone all drinking and card playing over the last three nights in preparation. Like rehearsing a new alchemy formula or a Gwent strategy; _repetition, repetition, repetition_. But now it was time he was worried he’d forget, so he kept reciting them even as he waited at the foot of the tower for Jaskier to appear. This was Buttercup’s idea. Even just _talking_ about it had made his eyes shine brighter than the constellations in the damned sky, and that smile was the most beautiful fucking thing Lambert had ever seen. So Lambert was doing this _properly._

And then Buttercup sat himself on the windowsill and Lambert looked up. All the words _vanished_. The Witcher’s chin practically hit the deck and his eyes stung when his pupils neglected their actual job of moderating light and blew wide with desire. Jaskier was wearing a black, shoulderless dress. The corset hugged tightly around his chest, emphasising the broadness of his frame and the regal slant of his collarbones and pinched into his narrow waist; the chiffon train spilled down from his hips, flowing silk and lace, to dust around bare ankles. His eyes were highlighted in kohl, wings flared from the corners with light shadow upon the lids, and his lips the deepest ruby red. Never had someone looked so… so… _yeah, all words were gone now._

“Lambert, dear heart. This is where you begin.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Lambert closed his mouth, looking around as if searching for the poetry knocked out of his brain by the heavenly sight above him. Fuck, he wanted to rub his face in Jaskier’s chest hair and unlace that corset with his gods-damned teeth. No. Wait. There was this first. He cleared his throat, “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Jaskier is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou, her bard, art far more fair than she.” He grinned. _Fucking nailed it._

“And who art thou? Dashing rogue, not a charming prince, forsooth. Yet you speak with all the airs of a noble lord.” 

Lambert was staring again, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Fuck. Forgot the next line. He grabbed the paper from his back pocket and glanced at it as discreetly as possible - which was not at all, Jaskier bit down on his smile - and then spoke again, “He speaks. O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white, upturned, wondering eyes, of mortals that fall back to gaze on him.”

“How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The Kaer walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here.” Jaskier bit his lower lip and drank the sight of Lambert in. His hair tousled out of place, in only a black shirt open low over his chest, medallion glinting against tanned skin, his leather trousers and his riding boots, he looked _delicious_ and the bard was _very_ tempted to beckon him up right now. But no. His Witcher had diligently rehearsed, even reciting it at Eskel during drills that very morning. The clash of steel and flare of Signs punctuated by declarations of love that had thrown Eskel off completely. In the end, Eskel had grabbed Lambert by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up to his room for an hour and a half. _Chores be damned._

“With love’s light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.” Lambert didn’t have to check his notes for this one. Not too many difficult turns of phrase, and now that he was into it the words were falling freely. _Look at how happy it made his Sun Wolf._

“I would not for the world they saw thee here!” Jaskier dashed the back of his hand across his forehead dramatically.

“I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, and but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate, than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.” Lambert rested a hand on the cold stone of the tower, because Jaskier was a vision and he could no longer keep his heart under control. Just had to wait. Wait for the words.

“My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words, of that tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Lambert, and a Witcher?”

“Neither, fair bard, if either thee dislike.” He pressed a fist to his chest, head tilted to the side.

Jaskier bit his lower lip again and watched Lambert through lidded eyes. “Dearest love, ascend my stony prison so that I may show thee _exactly_ how much I yearn.” 

Lambert climbed slowly up the tower, because he could see the flush rising up Jaskier’s chest and neck and wanted to enjoy the sight. He paused at the foot dangling over the ledge to take it in one of his hands and press a soft kiss to the back, and then the ankle. His other hand wedged itself into a shallow nook while his feet braced on a precariously jutting brick of stone. “Did I do alright?” 

“You were perfect. Now get in here and rip this off me.” The bard wiggled his toes against Lambert’s palm, and reached forward to scratch his fingers through the beard and stubble at his jaw.

White teeth flashed in a roguish grin, and the Witcher hauled himself up over the ledge with an enviable amount of elegance. He brought Jaskier to his chest and then bent him backwards over one arm for a deep, passionate kiss that stole the bard’s breath away, followed by a thorough worship of his throat and bare chest. “You’re beautiful, Buttercup. Prettier than any princess I’ve ever seen.”

Somehow, those words were sweeter than any of the carefully rehearsed poetry his Witcher had laboured over for days, and Jaskier let out a wistful sigh. “Make love to me, Lambert. Please.” 

Lambert scooped Jaskier into his arms like he was the most valuable thing on the Continent and carried him to bed.

***

Geralt cast a quick smile at Eskel, placed his knife down and leaned across the kitchen table towards Lambert, who was diligently dicing up wolfsbane. Toxic stuff, had to be careful. “What light through yonder window breaks?”

“Suck my dick, Geralt.”


End file.
